


Perfect

by MeowshmallowX



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (Yes hot chocolate), Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flu, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hot Chocolate, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Spock (Star Trek), M/M, Mentions of Taylor Swift, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Spock is thirsty af, k/s - Freeform, spirk, why is that a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeowshmallowX/pseuds/MeowshmallowX
Summary: Given three factors—Jim’s seasoned preparation for winter in Iowa, Spock’s distinct lack thereof, and a likelihood of 99.76% that at least one person will fall ill—what is the probabilityPthat Spock gets sick?
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 221





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/gifts).



> It’s December, and I’ve caught countless monstrous colds this year, and I’m a sucker for sickfics. Enjoy, I guess! 
> 
> Potential triggers: mentions of past abuse (Frank), mentions of Tarsus IV.

Jim had always excelled at many tasks—and testing Spock’s control was one of them. 

They were on their way to Iowa in a hovercar: a self-driving model, because Spock had discovered the relentlessness of the human paparazzi. And at the moment, he and Jim were nothing if not a good front-page photo. 

Because nestled into the curve of Spock’s shoulder was Jim’s head, its owner fast asleep.

And if someone were to look closely at such a hypothetical photograph, they would see the strain in Spock’s eyes: years and years of Vulcan training, slowly dissolving— 

Spock gripped his seat. _No._

Jim’s recent omnipresence, intensified by their aloneness together, had been wearing away at Spock’s strict control. Even during meditation, he’d found his thoughts turning to a particular reckless grin, a pair of blue eyes. What it might feel like to turn those oceanic depths stormy with need….

Jim mumbled and shifted, his hair brushing the sensitive place just behind the curve of Spock’s jaw, and sending the threat of a shiver down his spine.

Spock willed his heart rate to slow. Inhaled deeply.

He had to remember that this was for Jim—Jim, who, unlike the rest of the crew, had no real family to celebrate his return from the five-year mission. Jim, who faced nothing but loneliness so abject—so familiar—that Spock might call it perfect, if he’d believed in perfection. Jim, who had laughingly asked Spock whether he wanted to come back to Iowa with him. 

And Spock, understanding Jim’s tacit need for companionship, had said yes. 

“Really?” Jim had asked, blue eyes wide with surprise and some other strange, indecipherable emotion. “Are you—are you sure that’s a good idea, Spock? I mean—I’d really like that, I just….”

Spock had _not_ been sure it was a good idea.

Spock was still not sure it had been a good idea. 

Even so, given the opportunity, he knew he wouldn’t take back the decision. 

It was illogical. Worse still, it was unwise. But something about Jim had always made Spock break his own rules. 

* * *

“Here we are,” exhaled Jim, setting down his last bag on the countertop. “Home sweet home.” 

Spock surveyed the area. The farmhouse was cozy, the rooms few but spacious. 

“You grew up in this house?” asked Spock. Unbidden, images of a tiny Jim—sliding down the banister, dangling upside down from the sofa, sitting on the kitchen counter—rose to mind. 

As if in response to Spock’s thoughts, Jim slid himself onto the countertop, one arm resting on the bag. 

“Nah,” replied Jim, an odd, muted darkness flickering through his blue eyes. “Too many memories there. This place used to belong to my grandparents.” 

“I see.”

“And before you tell me ‘memories do not physically attach themselves to a location’ or something—”

Spock closed his eyes. “I was not going to tell you that.”

Jim blinked. “Oh.”

Silence hung between them. Jim was clearly waiting for Spock to elaborate, the light in his eyes exuding encouragement. And, oddly, hope. 

Spock very nearly sighed.

“When I was quite young,” began Spock, “I despised the school I attended.”

“Really?” The concern in Jim’s gaze belied the tone of casual surprise he’d adopted. “I figured you were born loving school.”

Spock shook his head. 

“Children can be quite cruel,” he explained. “I was made to feel…unwelcome. As the only one of my kind, I experienced extreme loneliness. I associated that pain with the school. And…for many years, I assumed that such an illogical association could only be the product of an inferior mind. An un-Vulcan one.”

_Much like the emotion I feel for you,_ Spock thought. Jim’s eyes flickered to Spock’s for a brief moment, then danced away. 

“I didn’t have anyone either,” replied Jim quietly—expressing empathy in his own way, Spock knew. “My mom was always in space. Sam was there for a while, but he couldn’t handle staying too long. And I…when he was gone, I…Frank….” 

Spock waited, holding Jim’s gaze. For a long moment, Jim stared back, those impossibly blue eyes swimming, drowning in some unspeakable aching thing. 

Jim looked away. 

“Jim?” ventured Spock. 

When he met Spock’s eyes again, it was like he’d flipped a switch—from lonely to impenetrable. 

“Let’s get out of here,” suggested Jim brightly. “Hit the town, see the sights. The sight. Singular.” 

Spock hesitated. As little as he wanted to let the matter evaporate, something told him Jim would only double down if pushed immediately. 

“Very well,” he acquiesced, moving toward the door.

He retrieved his sweater from its place on the dusty coat hanger and slid it on, waiting for Jim to finish his own preparations.

Jim frowned at him. “Where’s your coat?”

“I do not have one,” replied Spock. “As San Francisco is relatively temperate, I never needed to purchase a winter coat.” 

“ _Spock_ ,” sighed Jim. “You know you’re gonna get a cold, right?” 

Spock arched an eyebrow. “Lowered temperatures do not cause disease.” 

“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” Jim reached around Spock to open the door. “After you.” 

* * *

Spock had never seen a town so bright with Christmas lights as Riverside. Not a single house stood unlit by at least a generous sparkling trim of white, red, and green, to say nothing of the more ambitious projects. 

Jim glanced over at Spock, a soft smile illuminating his face. “If you like all this, just wait till you see the town square. The Christmas tree they’ve got there is the tallest I’ve ever seen.”

“The tradition is indeed fascinating,” agreed Spock, “though I do not partake in Christmas festivities.”

Jim nodded. “Right. Illogical.”

“Illogical, perhaps,” Spock conceded, “but my mother was Jewish. I, therefore, am Jewish as well.”

Jim’s eyes widened. 

“Shit,” he murmured, “I should’ve thought of that. Fuck, Spock, I’m so sorry—do you wanna see if we can—yeah, let’s go get Chanukah stuff. I know a place.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Both Christmas Day and Chanukah are over. It would be—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jim frowned out the window. “It’s not about what dates the holidays fall on or what decorations you put up or—or any of that. Not for me, and not really for most humans either. It’s about the feeling. Having people you care about. People who care about you, too. People who care enough to ask whether you’re Jewish or not.” 

Spock’s heart clenched in his side. 

“Jim,” he tried, but Jim just shook his head.

“I’m really sorry, Spock.” Jim shut his eyes. “I can’t believe—of all people—”

Before Spock could stop himself, he was twisting to face Jim, clasping his arm. 

“ _J_ _im_ ,” repeated Spock, his gaze unwavering. “You are enough.”

Jim’s eyes darted away and back again, the lights of all the passing houses contained in them. The light in all the universe contained in one man.

_You are everything._

“Spock….” whispered Jim. 

“You _are_ enough.” Spock tightened his grip. “You _are_.”

* * *

They ended up driving out to the quarry instead. 

Outside Spock’s window, a few idle snowflakes whirled around—likely, Spock thought, to portend a storm. He pressed the tips of his fingers to the cold glass. Just to feel it. 

“You gonna get out?” Jim’s voice startled Spock—they’d been silent since their last exchange in the town proper. He looked over. Jim was watching him, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Or would you rather head back?”

Spock was indeed beginning to feel tired, but some dimension of Jim’s pensive silence told him there was something important about this place. Some strange spell about it that would allow Jim to speak. 

“I will get out,” replied Spock quietly. 

A peculiar expression passed over Jim’s face—gone so quickly that, had Spock had anything less than full confidence in his powers of observation, he might have wondered if he’d imagined it. 

And then a corner of Jim’s mouth quirked up into a smile, and Spock lost all control over his breathing. 

Before Spock could do anything rash, though, Jim had popped open the car door and disappeared through it, leaving Spock alone and pulsating with a strange, soft sadness. A faint sense of loss. 

Spock exhaled and exited the car.

Once he’d closed the door after himself, he glanced around for Jim, spotting him at the edge of the cliff, hands buried in his pockets. Quietly, Spock moved to join him. 

“Hey,” murmured Jim, gaze fixed on the chasm before him. 

Spock inclined his head. “Hello.”

Jim released a short, quiet laugh—whether at Spock’s formality or at some other, bitterer humor, Spock did not know. Until Jim trusted Spock enough to speak first, Spock would never know anything real about him. 

So Spock waited. 

“I used to break in here as a kid.” Jim’s voice was frayed. “I once drove my stepdad’s car off this cliff. Jumped out at the last minute.”

Spock’s eyes widened. 

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t trying to—” Jim broke off. “I just wanted to get back at him. Frank. My stepdad.” 

“I understand,” whispered Spock.

For the first time since they’d gotten out of the car, Jim looked right at him. “I knew you would.”

Spock’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Oh,” was all he managed. 

A small smile tugged at Jim’s mouth, fading after a moment. He tilted his head back to gaze up at the stars. Spock could see the curve of his throat, watched its movement as he swallowed.

“Frank used to get drunk and beat the shit out of me, but you knew that.” Jim’s gaze slid back to Spock. “And Tarsus—you knew about that, too. I told you.”

“You did,” Spock replied quietly. 

“What don’t you know about me?” laughed Jim softly, shutting his eyes. “All right. When Sam left, there was no—no buffer between me and Frank. And it was…somehow, it was like he was even angrier. Like he couldn’t stand me now that there was no one to—to dilute me. Because—I know what I’m like, Spock. I’m obnoxious. Cocky. Used to be worse about sex, but I’m not exactly a model citizen now, either. And I think maybe I got that from him. Like he’d love me more if I drank like him, picked fights like him, fucked like him. Which is no excuse. But shit if Riverside isn’t exactly an escape from much.” 

_Oh._

Spock felt a sudden realization hit him. Jim—the brilliant mind he was—had lived his childhood without challenge and entirely alone. There was nothing for him in Riverside. So, in search of stimulation, he’d sought adrenaline high after adrenaline high—a habit that had continued well into his time aboard the _Enterprise._

A habit that the captaincy—finally enough of a challenge for Jim—had started to break. 

Jim stared at the ground for a long moment, struggling visibly with his next words.

“I think the worst part about it all was that I didn’t…have anyone. I could’ve dealt with Frank, Tarsus, everything—if I’d just had someone like…” Jim’s gaze focused on Spock, clear and fever-bright. “Like you.”

Spock’s lips parted. “Jim, I—”

Suddenly, Jim’s eyes widened. 

“Shit, Spock—you’re half-frozen!” he cried, fumbling around in his pocket for a pair of gloves. “Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve—we could’ve gotten you a coat! God, _Spock—_ you’re definitely gonna catch a cold now.” 

Jim pulled the gloves onto Spock’s hands—which, Spock realized, were trembling violently, along with the rest of his body—and unzipped his coat, wrestling it off his body. 

“J-Jim, it would be unwise to remove any clothing in this weather,” managed Spock through chattering teeth, struggling to pull Jim’s sleeves back onto his arms. 

“Yeah, well, it was unwise of you to come to the Midwest in the winter without a fucking _coat_ ,” muttered Jim, batting Spock’s shaking hands away.

In spite of Spock’s pathetic attempts, Jim successfully finished tugging his coat off of himself and onto Spock. He pulled it closed and zipped it all the way up to Spock’s chin. Spock couldn’t resist settling into the residual body heat left in the coat—nor could he fight the urge to inhale Jim’s scent, which permeated the fabric. 

Jim reached into one of Spock’s pockets, pulling out a woolen hat. 

“ _You_ must wear that,” insisted Spock, ducking Jim’s persistent hands.

“I’m not wearing a hat, winter or not,” insisted Jim, “so either you wear this, or no one does.”

With no small amount of reluctance, Spock stilled. Jim, his smile smug, pulled the hat onto Spock’s head and tugged the earflaps down. Spock fought not to tremble—no longer from the cold, he knew, but from the heat, the proximity, of Jim’s fingers. Of Jim. A responding heat coiled low in his stomach. 

Jim, hands still cradling either side of Spock’s face, paused. Spock could feel the closeness of Jim’s skin, could see the way he stood so near that the plumes of their breath blossomed into one another. Could feel Jim in every burning cell of his body. 

Jim’s eyes—so intensely blue, the first giddy snowflakes of a blizzard settling on his long, golden lashes—flicked down to Spock’s mouth. Spock battled the urge to lick his lips. He could feel his heart yearn in his side, every fiber of his being _aflame_ despite the frigid air around them. 

Spock could no longer stand the distance between them. 

He moved to bridge the gap— 

And suddenly the spell was broken and Jim was releasing him, clapping a hand to his bicep.

“You almost look human with your ears covered like that, Spock,” he joked, his voice unsteady. 

Spock swallowed the disappointment that rose like bile in his throat, his eyes alighting on Jim’s rapidly-bluing lips.

“You are cold,” he managed, eyebrows knitting. “We should return to the farmhouse.”

“I was raised here—no way am I gonna get sick,” protested Jim. “Besides—”

“Jim, I wish to return before you become hypothermic,” Spock cut him off, arching a stern eyebrow.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Fine, _Mom_.”

“It is good that you understand,” returned Spock coolly. 

Jim cracked a smile. 

“You seem pretty anxious there, Spock,” he teased him. “Are you _worried_ about me?”

“Vulcans do not worry.”

“Maybe they don’t. But do you?” A beat of silence. Jim sucked in a breath, his eyes widening with the realization of what he’d just said. “God, I—I’m sorry, Spock, I didn’t mean—”

Spock shook his head, and Jim clamped his mouth shut. 

“It is fine, Jim. I do not mind,” he assured him. “Now, will you please enter the vehicle so that we may return?”

* * *

That night, Spock dreamed he was again before the Vulcan High Council, only instead of the councilmembers there was Jim, and instead of Spock turning his back on Vulcan it was Jim who spat Spock’s name like poison.

Spock jerked awake, his mind still reeling with its last fading dream-image—the disgust in Jim’s eyes as he turned away and left.

* * *

He did not stop meditating until the noon sun, its light skinny with snow, slipped through the curtains of his bedroom and touched hesitant fingertips to his knee. 

Hunger gripped his body, but he had to resist it. Had to prove to himself that he was no victim to feeling. 

But Spock hadn’t heard Jim stir even once since the night before, and his hearing was excellent—he never failed to catch so little as a murmur from Jim’s room across the hall.

And Jim never failed to rise early for breakfast.

Carefully scrubbing the last remnants of emotion from his mind—it was, after all, only logical to ensure that such a valuable member of Starfleet was well—Spock rose to his feet and made his way across the hall. Once outside Jim’s door, though, he stopped. Something about entering a place so private….

Spock gave himself a firm mental shake. _Vulcans rely on logic,_ he reminded himself, _and hesitation in this scenario is highly illogical._ Straightening, Spock pushed Jim’s door open and entered.

He was immediately struck by the barrenness of the room. Though it wouldn’t have made sense for Jim to flood it with personal items so soon, the impersonality of the space existed at odds with what Spock had observed of human habits. But even the nightstand was empty, save for a dusty, lonesome Bible. 

The bed was positioned in the center of the nearest wall, and Jim was positioned in the center of the bed, his duvet crumpled at his feet and his sheets wound around his legs. Cautiously, Spock drew near. Jim was sprawled across the bed, his hair rumpled and his skin flushed. His breaths heaved slow, syrupy with sleep. The hem of his shirt had ridden up, exposing several inches of sculpted muscle. (Spock’s heart skipped a beat.) 

“Jim,” he tried softly, to no avail. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “ _Jim_. It is noon.”

Still no response. Spock tamped down his alarm. He’d learned over the past few weeks—particularly when, before leaving for Iowa, they’d shared Spock’s tiny San Francisco apartment—that Jim was a light sleeper, woken even by Spock’s quiet footsteps. So why wasn’t he waking?

After a moment’s hesitation, Spock reached down and gripped Jim’s shoulder, shaking him. 

“Five more minutes,” grumbled Jim, his voice a wreck. 

“It is noon,” repeated Spock.

Jim groaned. “Aw, fuck.”

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed, yawning loudly. Spock tried to ignore the way Jim’s shirt slid further up his stomach when he moved, the way the skin underneath—

“Why did you not rise earlier?” asked Spock, hoping his voice didn’t sound as unsteady to Jim as it did to his own ears. 

Jim frowned up at Spock, his eyes still bleary with sleep. 

“What, I can’t sleep in now?” he complained. “Oh, _fuck_ , that hurts.”

Spock’s brow furrowed. 

“Your throat is sore,” he observed. “Perhaps you—”

“I’m _not_ sick,” Jim cut in. He fixed Spock with a suspicious stare. “How’d you know it was my throat, anyway?”

“You are massaging it,” pointed out Spock.

Jim jerked his hand away from his throat, still frowning at Spock. “Suspicious.”

“Hardly.” Even Spock could hear the amusement in his voice—which would have bothered him if Jim hadn’t smiled so fondly at it. “Will you join me for breakfast?”

Another one of those strange looks—increasingly frequent ever since they’d left for Riverside—passed over Jim’s face. “You waited for me?”

Spock hesitated. It was true that he had been meditating, but… “Yes.”

Jim slid out of bed and made his way to the dresser, pulling out a blue T-shirt and jeans. 

“You didn’t have to,” he told Spock, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled off his shirt. “I’m not even hungry, really.”

Spock’s face flamed in reaction to the eyeful of Jim he’d just gotten. He whirled around, willing the green away from his cheeks. 

“I—I see,” he managed. “Loss of appetite is a symptom—”

“I’m. Not. _Sick_ ,” Jim ground out. “Bones made damn well sure we’re vaccinated, and I was _raised_ here. Actually—you know what? I’ll prove it to you. You have your breakfast and I’ll shovel the snow, and when I’m just fine, you’ll eat your words.”

Spock tilted his head. “How would I—”

“Figure of speech, Spock.” Jim—at last fully dressed—sauntered over to his bedroom door. “I’ll probably be out there awhile, so if you want to just hang around the house, read some books, drink some tea, whatever…feel free.”

“You do not wish for my help with the snow?” inquired Spock, tilting his head. “Given my superior strength, it would be the logical course of action to allow me to assist you.”

Jim’s eyes blazed. “I’m _proving_ to you that I’m not sick! If you really want to be helpful, you can make some soup or something. The replicator stuff is garbage.”

“Very well,” agreed Spock. “What kind of soup would you request I make?”

Jim shrugged, starting down the hall toward the stairs. Spock trailed after him. 

“There’s a drawer full of stuff I’m planning on making when _you_ get sick,” he replied, “just to the right of the stove. Bunch of cans of soup in there.”

“Very well.”

Spock kept an eye on Jim—subtly, he’d thought, though judging by the dirty look he received, perhaps not—as the latter pulled on a coat and shoved his feet into a bulky pair of snow boots. As Jim yanked the door open, Spock noted the mountains of snow heaped outside…along with the fact that snow was still actively falling. Any work Jim did would be quickly covered up. _Illogical,_ thought Spock, shaking his head and turning to the kitchen.

If the thought rose to mind with a flood of fondness to accompany it, well…who was Spock to deny perfectly logical affection?

* * *

The soup was boiling when the front door burst open and Jim tripped loudly through it, his coughing fit audible from the kitchen. Spock was before him in an instant. 

“Jim?” he asked, searching his friend’s dazed blue eyes. 

Jim’s cheeks were pale, his whole body shaking violently. 

“S-Spock,” Jim rasped through clicking teeth. 

Spock clutched Jim’s arms, breathing against the swell of panic in his chest. “Jim, are you all right?”

Jim’s gaze was distant, his reassuring smile too loose to actually reassure. 

“I’m c-completely fine,” Jim slurred.

And he pitched forward into Spock’s arms.

* * *

“Yep—a mild case of hypothermia, early flu symptoms, signs of physical overexertion, and irregular sleeping and caffeine intake patterns…that’ll knock you out.” The town doctor smiled at Spock. “You were right to get him warm and dry. And to call me, of course. He’s in good hands.”

Spock stifled the warmth that threatened to bloom in his cheeks at the thought of Jim being in his…hands. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your coming here despite the weather.”

The doctor waved a dismissive hand. 

“I’m a native Midwesterner. This is nothing,” she replied. Her gaze sharpened. “But I’ve never seen you around here before. Vulcan?”

“Indeed,” replied Spock.

“Aha.” The doctor smiled. “It’s nice to see couples like you two—so perfect together. Hope for the future.”

She waved over her shoulder and disappeared out the front door, shouting over the howl of the blizzard that Spock should give her another call if Jim’s condition worsened. 

Spock shut the door after her and let his eyes drift shut, his adrenaline high—however suppressed—just beginning to drop him. The moments following Jim’s collapse had been rapid. Had Spock’s control over his emotions been any lesser, he would have given in to panic the instant Jim passed out and didn’t respond. Spock hadn’t even had time to reflect on the implications of his actions as he stripped away Jim’s soaked clothing and replaced it with a dry set, swaddling him in blankets and laying him gently in bed. The urgency of the moment, not indifference, had kept Spock from reacting to the act of cradling Jim close as he climbed the stairs; care for Jim, not the lack of it, had kept Spock singularly focused.

But now….

Spock frowned, at last processing the doctor’s parting sentiments. _It’s nice to see couples like you two—so perfect together._ This time, the color gracing Spock’s cheeks wouldn’t fade. He told himself it was because of the stove’s heat. Spock knew what he told himself wasn’t the whole truth. But he also knew that Jim wasn’t ready for the whole truth—and Spock wasn’t ready for Jim to throw him away. 

_“You disgust me.”_

_The imposing seats of the Vulcan High Council. The freezing air in the room. The ice in Jim’s eyes as he turned away._

_The agony of the silence—_

Spock shook off the memories of the nightmare and focused on the fever medication before him. The doctor had instructed him to administer it sparingly, as Spock would have done in any case. With nothing to occupy his mind, he turned the box over and began scanning the information provided, wondering why, even after all this time, there had been developed no cure for influenza. 

A noise from upstairs interrupted his ponderings. 

“Spock,” came a feeble cry, followed by coughing.

Spock nearly dropped the box of medication. In only a moment, he was by Jim’s bedside, hands shaking with the effort of restraint, of not smoothing Jim’s sweaty hair back from his forehead or tucking his covers beneath his chin. 

“What do you need, Jim?” The tenderness in his own voice almost surprised him. “I have prepared hot vegetable soup from your drawer of…treatments.”

Jim’s eyes faltered around the room, unfocused but trying to define the angles of Spock’s face. Spock moved closer. 

“Spock…so c-cold,” whispered Jim, his shivering visible even through the many layers of blankets Spock had heaped on him.

Spock scanned Jim for his temperature—still 102°F. Jim’s eyes, hazy with fever, crossed, trying to follow the medical tricorder in Spock’s hand. 

A sudden idea struck him. _Illogical and unwise,_ he tried to remind himself. But Jim was delirious and maybe so was Spock and either way his defenses were rapidly crumbling under Jim’s unsteady gaze, and he knew it was a bad idea but could it really be so terrible if there was a probability of 87.34% that Jim would fail to remember the incident upon returning to health?— 

So Spock gently lifted a corner of the pile of blankets and slipped underneath, wrapping his arms around Jim’s shivering body. 

Jim responded instantly, relaxing into Spock’s embrace, nuzzling into the curve where Spock’s throat met his chest, breathing out a small, sweet sigh—almost childlike. 

Had Spock believed in perfection, he was sure this would be it. 

* * *

“Quit that,” grumbled Jim, turning his face away. “‘M not hungry.”

Spock waited, ever patient. “You must eat, Jim.”

“I’m. Not. Hungry.”

“You are being a child.”

“Shut up.”

Once again (and as usual), Jim was testing Spock’s control. Fortunately, when it came to his captain, Spock’s patience was…if not boundless, then close. 

So Spock just touched a gentle hand to Jim’s shoulder. “You will delay your recovery if you refuse to consume nutrients. Do you wish to remain ill?”

Jim pouted and grudgingly opened his mouth. 

Spooning soup into Jim’s mouth turned out to be a lengthier process than Spock had calculated, largely because he hadn’t accounted for Jim’s whining about vegetables. Every so often, Jim would recoil to mutter about _celery_ and _peas_ and _fucking kale, whoever invented kale can suck my fucking_ — At which point Spock would silence him with another spoonful of soup, gently wiping Jim’s chin whenever he dribbled (which was often).

When Spock had at last scraped the last spoonful of soup from the bowl, he set it aside on the nightstand, right by the various boxes of different medications. Distantly, Spock registered that Jim’s room had gradually become more crowded: a chessboard on the dresser, a meticulous pile of books on the nightstand, a chair—Spock’s—by Jim’s bedside.

“Is the soup done?” demanded Jim. 

“It is.” Spock opened up the bottle of fever medication, pouring a strange brown sludge into the included measuring-cup cap. “Drink this.”

He held the cup to Jim’s lips and tilted it back, waiting for the last of it to ooze— 

_“Fuck!”_ spat Jim, his face contorting. 

“Jim?” asked Spock sharply, surging to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

Jim fixed Spock with a furious, if unfocused, glare. “Shit, Spock, are you trying to _poison_ me?”

Spock relaxed, lowering himself back into the chair he’d dragged to Jim’s bedside. The past two days had been full of outbursts like these. Early that morning (having fallen asleep wrapped around Jim, though he would never admit it), Spock had been awakened by a strangled shout from Jim, followed by his hands grabbing at Spock’s shirt, groping around to his back, tugging him close. Burying his face in Spock’s chest and sobbing—some nightmarish fever dream. Spock had cradled Jim close. 

“Breathe, _ashayam_. Breathe with me.” 

And now it was like Jim had reverted to a toddler—moody, petulant, altogether unbearable.

Spock had never adored anyone more.

* * *

The other ostensible “flu cures” in the drawer Jim had told Spock about ranged from cans of vegetable soup (with which Spock was familiar) to several packets of something called “Swiss Miss” (with which Spock was not). Whatever this oddly vague product was, Jim had insisted Spock prepare it for the both of them, adamant that it would cure him. Spock wasn’t so sure of that. Still, he was appallingly bad at telling Jim no. 

The packets were blank other than the brand, leaving Spock to follow the instructions Jim had more or less coherently given him. He poured exactly two mugs’ worth of milk into a pot and turned on the stove, stirring occasionally, and tore open the packets. A burst of brown powder startled the air. _A peculiar odor,_ thought Spock suspiciously. But whatever it was, it was faint enough that he couldn’t identify it. 

Still wary, Spock poured the powder into the pot of hot milk and began to stir, watching the “Swiss Miss” particles latch onto the milk and turn it that same shade of brown. 

And then the scent hit him, stronger this time, and he felt a sudden stab of betrayal.

Hot chocolate. Jim was trying to trick Spock into drinking hot chocolate. 

So _that_ was how it was going to be. 

Stewing (though he’d never admit it), Spock finished mixing the beverage and poured even amounts in each mug. He left one mug on the countertop, covered with a plate, and brought the other upstairs. 

“I feel like _shit_ ,” Jim moaned in greeting, one arm draped across his face. 

“Highly doubtful,” remarked Spock dryly, “given feces’ distinct lack of the necessary nervous system.”

Jim glared in Spock’s general direction. “You know what I mean.”

“I will remind you that this was likely an avoidable situation.”

“Your lack of sympathy is almost impressive.” 

“I shall strive, then, to maintain it.” 

“Screw you.” Jim’s words lacked any heat. “Where’s my _beverage_?”

Spock lifted the mug. 

“I believe it has cooled off sufficiently,” he told him. “It should not burn you.” 

A feline smirk curled the corners of Jim’s lips upward. “Will you administer the cure to me, Doctor?”

Spock felt his face heat. Swallowing, he leaned over, bracing a delicate hand against the back of Jim’s neck. It was soaked with sweat, the skin flushed. Spock applied gentle pressure, and Jim complied, tilting his head back. _The curve of Jim’s throat, the heat of his skin—_ Spock felt his heart rate triple. Jim was so beautiful and so close. 

The mug pressed lightly against Jim’s lips, and Spock tipped it forward, the liquid trickling into Jim’s mouth. A massive, shivering feeling was expanding inside of Spock, shuddering through his veins with every beat of his heart, growing with every second. Spock could sense himself losing the battle against it. Every second he cared for Jim, every second his heart stayed warm in Jim’s presence, was another inch he surrendered to the feeling. If he just gave in—if he just let the feeling overtake him—he knew he would find the peace, the sense of rightness, that Jim gave him when he was near….

Jim made a noise, and Spock pulled the mug back. 

“Are you—” Spock’s voice split. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you all right?”

Jim nodded. His eyes still gleamed with mischief. 

“I was just wondering,” he began innocently, “where’s _your_ mug, Spock?”

_You—_

Without a word, Spock dumped the hot chocolate all over Jim’s head. 

Jim gasped, staring down at himself and then up at Spock, visibly shocked— 

And he exploded with laughter. 

* * *

Later that night, curled up beneath a blanket in the chair by Jim’s bed, Spock stared up at the ceiling, wrestling with his feelings for Jim. At some point—sometime during their mission, Spock thought—the latent attraction had blossomed into love. It had been easy to deny when they were on-board, when Jim was his charismatic captain and brash best friend: someone Spock _should_ have been drawn to. But now that Spock had cared for Jim in sickness, had weathered all his delirious insults and outbursts, had held him through his nightmares, the feelings were undeniably love. 

From somewhere deep inside Spock’s tangle of thoughts, the words Sarek had spoken to him after Amanda’s death surfaced. _I married your mother because I loved her_. The words that had transformed Spock’s understanding of marriage, of emotion, of Vulcan propriety. The words that had transformed his universe. 

_But, Father,_ Spock thought wryly, _Mother loved you in return. That is where our situations differ._

* * *

Almost a week had passed before Spock would let Jim even think about leaving his bed. The instant Spock told Jim he could get up, Jim was out of bed and down the stairs, clattering around in the kitchen. Spock followed him at a more sedate pace, curiously watching from the doorway. Jim was pouring a bag of coffee beans into a centuries-old style of grinder. He paused and buried his nose in the bag, inhaling deeply. _Fascinating_ , thought Spock. 

“Jim,” he began. Jim jumped and spun around, a question in his eyes. “What is it you are doing?”

“Coffee,” explained Jim brightly. 

Spock was puzzled. “I am aware of your appreciation of coffee. However, if you so strongly preferred coffee to tea, why did you not simply inform me?”

“I’m particular,” replied Jim. “Besides, do you even know how to make coffee?”

“I am quite capable of learning,” he answered, doing his best to not be indignant. 

Jim shrugged and returned to his task. “I guess it’s nice to do it myself. Especially after all that time doing _nothing_.”

Spock wanted to protest—their games of chess had hardly been _nothing;_ Jim had won almost half their matches—but there was something he’d had planned for Jim, and that something was coming up soon…. 

From the drawer where Spock had hidden Jim’s communicator, there was a chirp.

“I believe that is yours,” Spock informed Jim. 

Jim frowned at Spock, somewhere between confused and suspicious, and pulled open the drawer. His whole face immediately lit up. _“Bones!”_

“Hey, kid,” replied Bones, his grin audible. “How’s life in paradise?”

“Par—I think you’ve got the wrong idea.” Out of the corner of his eye, Spock caught the glance Jim chanced in his direction. Jim’s cheeks had gone rosy. “Uh, hold on. Lemme grab my coffee and just….”

Jim shot Spock an apologetic glance before dashing off to the living room, coffee securely in hand. 

Spock nearly smiled to himself, warm with the knowledge that the loneliness that had begun to throb in Jim’s eyes toward the end of their mission had at last, over the course of their time together, started to fade. His body humming with contentment, he set about preparing some soup. Jim would groan about missing solid food (“real food,” in his words), Spock knew, but soup would ease any lingering throat pain. (The fact that Spock couldn’t cook much beyond soup may also have been a factor in his culinary decision.) 

Over the past week, Spock had discovered a new form of meditation in cooking. The quiet rhythm of it, the process of creating something coherent from various disparate pieces, hollowed out a place in Spock’s conscious mind for the sifting-through of thoughts—of emotions. Through this new form of meditation, Spock had come to justify love in Vulcan terms. For so long, the feeling had seemed wrong to him: a strange chemical mixture of attraction, synergy, and affection. Entirely illogical. But the logic in love lay along the border between itself and infatuation. Love— _real_ love—sprang from a place of deep, essential understanding, both of the other and of the self. It was its own beautiful sort of science. 

And love had drawn Spock in as inexorably as any other unanswered question. 

From the living room, Jim’s voice came to him in waves, alternating between low murmurings and high, excited pitches—crashing and cresting. Drawing him in. The inevitable pull of ocean-dark eyes. Spock would drown like this. Spock would delight in it.

The soup finished cooking, at long last ready to eat. Spock ladled it into a bowl and, taking a spoon, carried it out to the living room, where Jim was bundled up in blankets on the couch, his conversation with Bones apparently coming to an end.

“You’re an idiot,” Bones was telling Jim, his voice fond, “but I love you.”

“Love you too,” laughed Jim. 

This did not make Spock feel jealous. It did _not_. 

After a pause, Bones spoke again. “And Jim—remember that you can call any of us any time. Just because the first big mission is over doesn’t mean we’re not family anymore.” 

Jim’s answering smile _glowed_ , and Spock felt warmth bloom inside him, any trace of jealousy within him entirely gone. “I’ll remember, Bones.” 

“Good.” Bones’s voice was back to its usual cantankerous tone. “I don’t want to have to deal with Spock whining about how you spent the whole year between our deep-space missions just moping around.”

“Vulcans do not whine,” interjected Spock, stirring Jim’s soup.

“Like hell they don’t,” retorted Bones. “Anyway. It was great talking to you, Jim. Call soon or I’ll kick your ass.”

And just like that, they were alone together. Jim and Spock and Spock and Jim. 

Jim, still smiling, ventured a warm glance at Spock. 

“Thank you, Spock.” Jim’s voice was low. “I really needed that.”

Spock spent a long moment wrestling with his next words, unsure whether he should give voice to those thoughts—unsure whether he should make them real. At last, though, he relented. He could only speak the truth. 

“I am…glad that you feel better,” admitted Spock, his heart stumbling in his side. 

Jim looked up sharply, eyes bright, and broke out into a wide grin. _Glad._

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” replied Jim, his voice soft. “Thank you, Spock. I…don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Spock’s eyes widened. Jim’s words so closely echoed the ones he’d spoken all those years ago—the words that had persuaded Spock not to leave Starfleet. 

“Nor I without you,” murmured Spock.

Jim nodded, his expression suddenly uncertain, as though he was about to say something important. The look was gone as quickly as it had come, though. Spock, unsure of how to proceed, began to spoon-feed Jim the soup. 

“I can feed myself,” protested Jim, eyes bright with indignation.

Spock just raised a stern eyebrow, and Jim gave in. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Spock leaning into Jim’s side to spoon hot soup into his mouth. Every so often, a gust of wind outside tossed up sheets of snow, sending the tiny flakes—which had accumulated until they reached the height of Spock’s waist—sparkling against the window panes. Snow had surprised Spock. He’d never expected winter to be so full of light. 

He spooned more soup to Jim, whose expression had again gone slanted with that odd uncertainty.

“Spock,” Jim said, or tried to say around the spoon (to Spock, who understood his meaning, it sounded more like “Thpaagh”).

Spock carefully extracted the spoon from Jim’s mouth. “Yes, Jim?”

Jim eyed Spock. 

“I have this really weird memory,” he began, “from when I was delirious.”

“Is that so?” queried Spock mildly, preparing another spoonful of soup.

Jim nodded. “Spock, did you—?”

Spock dragged the spoon through the soup. “Did I….”

Jim broke off, staring at his lap. “Nah, never mind. It’s _really_ weird. I was probably hallucinating.”

Spock hesitated.

“I do not believe you were,” he ventured, his gaze flitting up to meet Jim’s own—speaking at the exact moment Jim blurted out, “Did you _cuddle_ me?”

Spock paused. “Ah.”

So much for that probability of 87.34%. 

Jim searched Spock’s gaze, Spock unable to determine what to say. Evidently, though, his expression said enough. 

Jim nodded once, sharply, and looked down. To the side. Out the window. _Anywhere but at me_ , Spock realized with a pang. He opened his mouth to apologize.

“I’m not…mad,” exhaled Jim before Spock could speak. His eyes again met Spock’s. Nervous. “Is that—is that what I asked you to do? I don’t remember much from the first few days. I’m surprised I even….”

Spock hesitated. “You…did not request it, no.”

“But I looked at you like I was asking you to,” Jim guessed, his expression strange, abstract. 

Spock’s nod was clipped. “I should not have—”

“It’s fine, Spock, all I’m trying to—”

“—behavior was improper—”

“—not like I would’ve said anything different if I weren’t—”

“If I overstepped my bounds, I deeply regret—”

“ _No_ —that’s not it at all!” burst out Jim. “That’s not it at all.”

Spock fell silent, watching as Jim bit his lip. Some unknown battle raged within his blue, blue eyes. 

Spock steeled himself. “Jim, there is something you must know.”

Those turbulent eyes lifted to meet Spock’s. Already, visions were flashing through Spock’s mind. _“You disgust me.”_ His apartment in San Francisco, the lonely neatness of it. The gray-blue city light so much colder than a pair of tidal-wave eyes, the distant conversations of strangers nothing more than a bitter substitute for the laughter that followed a particular daring grin. A different starship, maybe. A different captain.

A different Spock.

“What is it?” whispered Jim.

_Kaiidth_ , Spock reminded himself. And he spoke.

“I am aware that my feelings are not reciprocated,” Spock began haltingly, the words reluctant to rise to his lips, “yet I am as incapable of disguising them as I am of controlling them. Jim, you are well within your right to demand that I leave, but—I love you. I have loved you for many years now. And I cannot withhold that information from you any longer.”

Silence.

Spock would not meet Jim’s eyes. Could not. Was too busy envisioning the disgust in them. The loneliness of a single pillow for a single bed.

Something warm touched Spock’s chin, grazed his lips. Fingers. _Jim’s._ Spock looked up sharply. There was no trace of disgust in those impossibly blue eyes.

Instead, they _burned_.

And then Jim was seizing Spock’s collar and pressing his body into the sofa, blazing blue eyes above him, then close, then closer—

Heat on Spock’s mouth, all down his body. Jim was kissing him. Jim was _kissing_ him. Spock was laid out along the sofa and being kissed—kissed by Captain James Tiberius Kirk, genius strategist and nonbeliever in no-win situations and compassionate, good-hearted friend. James T. Kirk—who had died and come alive before him, who had driven him to the depths of violent rage and despair and joy and wonder, who had made him who he was—had his open mouth hot on Spock’s. Blue eyes drifting shut in bliss, head tilted to the side, lips moving with skill-turned-feverish-madness. Jim Kirk. Jim. 

Spock released a shuddering gasp against Jim’s mouth, his hands clumsy and hot as they explored the terrain of Jim’s muscular back, the planes of his shoulder blades, the ridge of his spine. His mind ached for Jim’s, but until he had permission— 

And suddenly Jim had exploded away from Spock, leaving him cold and dazed. 

“S-sorry, I—” Jim’s shoulders were shaking. 

Spock felt his heart hammer in his side. To experience something so wonderful, only to have it ripped from him…. “Jim—”

Jim erupted in a furious coughing fit, waving helplessly at Spock. Bemused, and still dizzy from the kiss, Spock waited until the coughing died down.

“Sorry,” Jim apologized again, smiling sheepishly. “It wasn’t some dramatic emotional thing—I just didn’t want to cough in your mouth.”

Amusement tugged at the corner of Spock’s lips. 

“I see,” he replied dryly. “Thank you, then, for kissing me in your current state.”

Jim laughed breathlessly. “Do you want me to apologize a third time? You know what, I can make it up to you—I’ll take care of you when you catch my flu. How’s that?”

“Incorrigible,” murmured Spock, a small smile playing about his mouth. 

Spock didn’t even mind his own smile—the light it brought to Jim’s face was brilliant enough to replace every star in the universe. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” returned Jim, eyes sparkling. His grin faded slightly. “Spock…why didn’t you say anything sooner? I’m not angry, it’s just…we could’ve avoided a lot of messes.” 

Spock paused, considering the question. 

“At first, I was alarmed by what I felt for you,” he replied truthfully. “Of everyone I had met, you seemed to be the most…different from me.” 

Jim’s eyes gleamed. “You knew I was trouble when I walked in?” 

Spock nodded, and Jim burst out laughing.

“I do not….” Spock trailed off, bewildered, which only served to make Jim laugh even harder. 

“Sorry, sorry,” gasped Jim, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That was a reference to a classical song.” 

“I…see,” responded Spock, who didn’t see. 

Still chuckling, Jim smiled fondly at Spock, a fierce, wild giddiness sparkling in his eyes. Had Spock been a lesser scientist, he would have sworn that, in that moment, his heart stopped. 

“I love it when you look like this—your hair all mussed and your whole face green.” Jim’s voice was soft. “Absolutely perfect.”

_There is no such thing as perfection,_ Spock wanted to insist, but sitting there, staring at Jim—his beautiful Jim—Spock wasn’t so sure anymore. 

But there was still one thing to clear up.

“Jim,” he began slowly, “why did _you_ not say anything of your feelings sooner?”

Jim looked away. “I don’t know, Spock. Lots of reasons. Mostly because we’d be on the _Enterprise_ together for five years—I didn’t want to complicate that—and because of you and Uhura.”

Spock arched a brow. “Nyota and I terminated our romantic relationship three years ago.”

Jim grimaced. “I know, I know. It’s complicated.”

“I will not lie to you, Jim.” Spock met Jim’s eyes. “Nyota and I did experience attraction to one another for many years. However, we soon determined that a platonic relationship was more suitable for us.”

Jim studied the blanket. “I knew that. I know that.”

“I am certain, though, that you did not know of the latent feelings which I harbored for you even as I fought with you for command of the _Enterprise_.” Spock felt a measure of gratification at the surprise in Jim’s eyes. “Nyota recognized my feelings before I did—indeed, it was she who encouraged me to act on them. She informed me that I have always felt more strongly about you than anyone else—that, even if what I felt was not love from the beginning, she had never seen me weep for anyone else. And Jim—she was correct.”

“Oh.” Jim’s eyes were huge in his face, stricken. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips before he continued. “I…you two just seemed so...perfect. Spock, there were times I couldn’t stop thinking about how you two would go off together, invite me to your perfect wedding, have me as a guest in your perfect house, ask me to be the godfather of your perfect quarter-Vulcan babies....” 

There was that loneliness again, throbbing in Jim’s eyes. Spock softened. 

“Jim.” Spock spoke the name like it was a hymn. “Was loneliness the reason you considered the admiralty?”

Jim swallowed. 

“Yes.” His voice was barely audible. “It was.”

“Yet you were afraid of a change from that loneliness. After spending your childhood alone, you feared intimacy. You feared that you were unworthy of it. That you would be found out for exactly what you were.” Spock touched Jim’s hand. “Correct?”

Jim’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Didn’t meet Spock’s. “How did you know?” 

Spock’s answer was simple. 

“Because, Jim,” he replied, “I myself long felt the same way.”

Jim shut his eyes. One tear, then two, slipped down his face.

“Spock—” Jim’s voice broke. “How could you think that about yourself?”

Spock took Jim’s hands and pulled him close, cradling his head against his chest. He felt a sob shudder through Jim. _Cry, my love. Let yourself cry._

“Jim, _ashayam,_ ” he murmured, pulling him closer, “how could _you_?”

* * *

Spock awoke to Jim’s bedroom, sunlight filtering through Jim’s window, legs tangled in Jim’s sheets, Jim tangled around him. Drooling. Still, Spock thought, Jim had never looked so perfect. 

As it happened, though, Spock had acquired yet another one of Jim’s…gifts. 

“Jim,” Spock rasped to his half-conscious bedmate, “I do believe I have been infected with your influenza.”

* * *

Spock had never believed in perfection. Though the universe could be navigated with logic and reason, its entropic nature predisposed it to irregularities—anomalies Spock had once mistaken for flaws. Once, a very different Spock would have labeled himself broken for the slightest deviation from his idea of the proper Vulcan way. Indeed, once, a very different Spock would have criticized the mismatch between himself and Jim: two people sick with flu, two people who’d lived their lives lonely. Two people ever-incomplete. 

But there, wrapped in bedsheets and Jim—each completing the other _because_ neither was whole on his own—Spock believed what he had never before let himself believe. After all, something about Jim had always made Spock break his own rules. 

After all, together, they were perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jim still jams out to TSwift and nothing can ever convince me otherwise.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! Honestly, if you made it this far, you deserve a prize. And if you’d be so kind as to even *gasp* leave a comment, I will love you forever! Yes, that’s a promise.
> 
> A HUGE thank-you to [Wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom), who introduced me to the world of K/S fic and the beautiful concept of Jewish Spock. If you haven't already, go check out their work!!! I guarantee you, your life is not complete without it.
> 
> Another HUGE thank-you to my dear friend, Aplgreen, who cheered me on as I wrote AND made some [absolutely gorgeous art](https://aplgreen.tumblr.com/post/190224784786/some-sketches-based-off-this-fic-by) for this fic! Follow her! Admire her stunning work! Give her the love she deserves!
> 
> A brief point of clarification: it occurred to me, in reflecting on this fic, that when I write about Jim having previously been "worse about sex," it might seem like I'm criticizing the frequency with which he indulged in it. Please be assured that that's not what I mean at all—the only aspect of his sexual habits with which I take issue is his formerly frequent objectification of women (see: Carol Marcus, Nyota Uhura). It's for that reason that I like to write post- _Beyond_ Jim; he's gotten much more mature and respectful :)


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